Send Help
by Fullmetal Assassin
Summary: Most people are dying for adventure. That's like, a basic summary of this life in particular. My life. I guess that'll be the heading that I put on my headstone when I die again. Whether or not I'm looking forward to it, I'm not sure. But the word needs to go around... There's something wrong. Poisoned. And I'll need help to fix it.


**Right. I should probably have an author's note or something. But I don't. This is the first chapter and it's already spiraling out of my control for no particular reason.**

Most people had the opportunity of dying dramatically.

Sure, I guess dying sounds horrible, but when you look at it, would you prefer to die from like, your organs giving out, or something so memorable that it gets ingrained into the fabric of history for the rest of human time?

Hamlet had the lovely opportunity of dying dramatically. What, with the whole bit about his tyrannical father being murdered by his power-hungry uncle, doomed for a fate of seeking vengeance under his father's control until the very end where he slays his own uncle under his own will, and not his father's business? Sounds great! He even got his best friend to share his story on for other people! _"O God, Horatio, what a wounded name,/Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!/If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart/Absent thee from felicity a while,/And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain/To tell my story."_

That's fucking magnificent. Majestic. That guy died with flair. Fabulously.

Me? I was walking across the street and got hit by a car. I don't know. It feels so anticlimactic. And it's not even like I was going off to slay my enemy or wash my hands of their blood. No. I was coming home from getting my maths homework from my friend, since I skipped the last day before Christmas break. It didn't even hurt that much... but maybe it was because I had gone into shock before dying.

God, _I am such a casual_. Beginner level. Opposite of expert.

So yeah. I figured I died like, an hour and seven minutes ago or something.

At the same time, I'm not quite sure. I was currently sitting in a waiting room. I've been staring at the clock. There were chairs scattered around the room, and a pile of battered magazines on the table in the corner that looked way outdated. I felt like I should be worried or something. But it was like, I couldn't bring myself to care. Ever get that feeling where you pull an all-nighter, then finally give up, and then you don't give a crap as to how bad your grade will turn out, as long as you get sleep? It was that feeling.

It probably wasn't healthy.

Naturally, if I died, I'd be in heaven (or hell. Depends on how Jesus was feeling today, I guess). Maybe the car crash was so minor that I just had to get a check-up from the doctor?

But I'm just saying. If this was heaven, then _damn, _they are _really _bloody inefficient. Like, what the hell, why is there a waiting room? And another thing, no one else is here. I am completely isolated. So what the actual crap?

The paint-chipped door creaked open. A guy wearing a flannel and jeans came in, carrying a clipboard. He looked pretty average, save for the fact that something about him screamed, "_douchebaggery". _Maybe it was the cocky smile, or the slicked back blond hair that resembled a god-awful flowback. He had blunt features. A crooked nose that appeared to be broken one too many times. A low set brow over squinty pig-eyes. Red-faced, but not as if he's mad, but those people who naturally just burn easily, and generally have the douchebag aura around them. I remember I avoided them in school. Or gave them sarcastic-ass remarks. It was just this—_loathing. _

"You. In the chair," he said. I blinked.

Wow. Rude much?

"Golly," I said, widening my eyes and looking about me. "Sir, could you be more specific? I'm not quite sure if you're talking to me or the guy a few chairs down or something." I would have figured the papers on the clipboard were my documents, therefore must have had my name on it or something. My name, which was…

"Stop being a sarcastic little shit. I have to talk to you about important stuff that will be happening." He gestured inside the door with the arm that held the clipboard.

"So like, the doctor is here to see me? Finally. This guy is honestly the _worst _doctor I've ever been to, and I haven't even met the poor bastard yet."

"Look, you dumbass. This isn't a doctor's office—"

"The old magazines about Britney Spears in the corner begs to differ."

"…. That is for other reasons."

"Are they yours?" I asked with a condescending smirk.

"That's not the point—"

"So they _are." _I broke into a shit-eating grin. "Well, I'm not judging."

"Just hurry up. You have about seven minutes here, and we wasted the other bit of it bickering."

"Well, there _was _an hour and seven minutes before this…" I got up off of the wooden chair anyway and sauntered over, past the douche guy and into the hall. Different rooms branched from here, each with their own conference areas of sofas and coffee tables. Two photocopiers sat on the side, adjacent to what appeared to be a work space. I could almost smell the office work that was done here.

The guy moved past me and went into the room closest to where we were. I followed him and sat down on the black sofa without much remark. There was a mirror here (I briefly caught a glimpse of myself. Same black hair and slanted eyes, same dead look to them as per usual when dealing with bullcrap), on top of the desk with a bunch of writing utensils on it. Most of the furniture here was of mahogany or black leather. Fancy.

"So look, I don't have much time," the blond guy began. He spoke monotonously; as if this was a script he had long since memorized and had recited about as many times as humanly possible. He dropped his clipboard unceremoniously onto the table, with words printed in an unintelligible language. "Here's the deal. You're dead—"

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised," I muttered.

"And essentially, you weren't good enough to go into heaven."

"Well, does that mean I get to go to Lucifer dearest? Oh, what fun I'll have."

"Don't be afraid, seventy-two percent of the world's populace isn't good enough. Some are exceptional—Mother Teresa, St. Joan of Arc, Ghandi, etcetera—they get into Heaven, or whatever their version of Heaven is—Nirvana or something. Not my branch of expertise, so don't ask about it. Some go straight to Hell."

Words will never explain how weird it was to see a jock-looking kid like this talking about Heaven and Hell and enlightenment. I was more used to the typical dumbass remarks in history class.

"My point is, you are in the majority that hangs in the balance. So we're going to give you an extra chance, no matter how much of a little shit you are in terms of back talk."

"What can I say?" I shrugged nonchalantly. "I am the best."

I leaned forward. "So I want to ask, what are you? Angels are supposed to be all nice and everything, you know, glowing, wearing white, halo, wings and all? What happened?"

The guy sighed. "In my field, you tend to see so many humans to the point where you don't care anymore and begin to pick up on the culture. I found this to be the most prominent style around North America. As for the wings… That's the higher ups in the Order. But you don't need to worry your thick head about that." I opened my mouth to reply, but he continued.

"So basically, you're going back on Earth—not the one you knew. There are different universes, if you can wrap your self-centered human mind around that. Different _experiments, _if you will, with different factors, and therefore different outcomes. Some dimensions have great saviors who bestow their power upon the people. Some dimensions are so torn by war that the lifespan of that world is almost done. Dead. So we'll just be dropping you into any given dimension at this point, any except for yours. Doesn't really matter. Your job is pretty open ended, if I must say, for better or for worse." This time, the (angel? I still wasn't quite sure as to what he was, actually. I needed to make up a name for him) leaned over on his couch, closer to me, with ice blue eyes burning intensely set off by his red face. "You need to be better. Save the world. Donate an organ. Do something helpful, and _not _just sit in front of a television and let your brains bleed out from your ears."

I'm not going to lie; I actually got pretty wrecked there. Damn it. "Wow, aren't you helpful," I remarked. "I'll be sure to do that." I glanced down at the clipboard. On it, a thumbnail portrait of what looked to be a mugshot or a passport photo of me stared upwards. Frowning, I pointed at the clipboard and the writing.

"What does this even say? Either it's not English or you have horrible handwriting."

"It's _not _English, you dolt. This is the language of Heaven. You'll eventually understand it if you make it past your trial. This," he said as he pointed at the top bit of scrawling, "is your name."

I was ready to say something about how that looked nothing like my name, then I realized; _What the fuck was my name? Did I just forget my name? I can't just _forget.

The angel douche gave me a smug look. "You don't remember your name, I'm assuming. It's gone. It was gone when you died." I gave him the most scalding and questioning look I could muster. Imagine that horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach when you lose something, like your phone, or the necklace your great-grandma has passed down the family. Take that, and multiply it by a thousand. A million.

I didn't even know who I was.

"_Why?"_

"Names bind you to people in your life. Names hold memories, identities of who you _were. _Once you leave one world, you will _never _return to it. Your name stays. Each world gives names to everything. You humans have the rather odd need to categorize and label everything. Here's what; I will be so nice as to tell you what your name was if you succeed. If you don't… Well, all the same. I suppose it's your job to play it out." His eyes softened, and for a minute, I could believe that he didn't make me feel some sort of unholy need to punch his teeth out. He looked—sympathetic, almost. "It's tough, I know. But it's either this or you remain an earthbound spirit for the rest of the world's lifespan."

I flashed a grin. "Well, at least I can do some scary shit to people. Like if they just abused a kid, then I'd make their walls bleed or something, or appear in their mirrors."

The guy shook his head. "Look, it's not worth it. Just—_go. _Your time here is up, anyway. We'll see each other eventually during this whole thing, depending on how badly you screw up."

He waved his hand, the way a conductor would in order to signal the end to an orchestra. A stop. A final gesture.

I was plunged into darkness after that.

As cheesy as it sounds.

* * *

><p>I don't like crowds.<p>

They're noisy. They're annoying. They bug me.

So naturally, a crapload of nurses bustling about is what is classified as _annoying. _I couldn't even see them. I was literally blind. But I could _hear _them. Saying, in the same familiar dialect of Cantonese, "_Congratulations, it's a girl. Do you have a name for her?"_

_ "Lenalee," _a gentle voice said. It was a lady, who sounded exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time. "_Lenalee Lee."_

Hold on, what the _fuck _did I just get myself into?

**I feel like you guys have this kind of concept of OC's into cannon too much. I know the feel. I hate reading OC... but I love writing them. Hypocritical, no?**

** Anyways... tell me your thoughts. Love it? Hate it? Burn it at the stake? It'll get intense from here. I originally wrote something like this for the Katekyo Hitman Reborn! series, but... I started it years ago, hated it, deleted it. Too Mary Sue-ish. So please, do me a HUGE favor. If you see it leaning towards something like that... _Stop me. _Yell at me. I'll hate it all over again and go to the corner and cry, and trust me. It's not fun. Review to have an excuse of doing something nice today~! **

**~Krisa**


End file.
